


The Whole World Reduces To Just That Room

by kahootqueen69



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (Oh my God there was only one bed), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bickering, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed, and there was only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26238376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kahootqueen69/pseuds/kahootqueen69
Summary: Francis Crozier misses his flight, and is positively dour because of it. Things don't get any better when a stranger seems to have missed the same flight... Or do they?ORThe one where they miss the same flight and are stuck with each other.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	The Whole World Reduces To Just That Room

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just something silly that I wanted to get out of my system before school starts again tomorrow and I probably won't have time for it, so here it is!
> 
> Title is a lyric from Don't Delete The Kisses by Wolf Alice :)

“I’m sorry Mr. Crozier, the gate is closed. They’re already taxiing, the plane is about to take off any minute.” The lady at the gateway shakes her head apologetically.

“Are there any other flights to Portugal I could take?” He’s short-winded, sweating, and no doubt looking like a tomato.

“This was the last one for today. The next flight isn’t until five AM tomorrow. Sorry, sir.”

 _Great._ He shifts the heavy and brimmed bag from one shoulder to the other, checking his watch. Four PM. He sighs, looking about the terminal and its many giftshops and too-expensive restaurants. His eye falls on a tall, lean man with olive-tanned skin and long, wavy brown hair, hurriedly zigzagging between empty seats with a large suitcase in tow, making his way towards them.

_Too bad, fella._

“I’m not too late, am I?” asks the stranger before gracefully coming to a stop in front of them, seemingly not worried in the slightest.

There’s not a drop of sweat to be found on his handsome, if somewhat rectangular, features — he _is_ handsome, Francis can’t deny that — and not even a hint of a wheeze in his deep voice as he speaks, that sounded a bit posh to an extent. Francis loathes him instantly.

“Sorry sir, I was just explaining to Mr. Crozier here—” as she says his name, the stranger turns and looks him up and down in one long glance, to Francis’ incredulity “—that the plane is about to take off. The next one leaves at five AM.”

“Well, that’s a shame.”

Francis doesn’t know whether that was directed at him or not — though why it should be directed at him, a stranger to this annoyingly gorgeous man that he would very much like to snog, he doesn’t know either.

Clearing his throat, Francis tears his gaze away from the man and back to the young lady. “You don’t happen to know if there’s a hotel nearby that has a room available, do you?”

“I couldn’t be sure, sir. The hotels are particularly busy this time of year.”

“ ‘Course they are,” Francis mumbles.

“Perhaps a colleague of mine could check?” she tries. “You’d need to check with her anyway if you want to permute your ticket to tomorrow’s flight.”

“I think that sounds like as good a plan as any,” the stranger cuts in before Francis can respond, smiling a shit-eating grin. Francis would like to kiss or punch it off his face — both will do.

Making their way back towards the front of the terminal, Francis is struggling to keep up with the quick pace of the handsome stranger’s long, athletic legs, constantly shifting the strap of his travel bag back into a more comfortable — as comfortable as it can get with that weight, anyway — position on his shoulder, which seems to grow heavier with each stride of his legs.

He curses this man’s resolve. Where does he think they’re going anyway? It’s not like their flight is about to take off before they can board it, since it already has.

Reaching the desk of the airline they were supposed to fly with, Francis grumbles as he sees the line in front of them.

Mr. Handsome, as Francis has decided to dub him, plants his suitcase in front of him, folding down the handle. “Suppose we’ll just have to wait for our turn then.”

Francis rolls his eyes. _Good find, Sherlock._

The line shuffles forwards slowly, and he feels terribly uncomfortable with this man by his side, looking gorgeous even as he’s doing things where one shouldn’t look half as gorgeous doing them: looking incredibly bored; inspecting the neat cuticles of his nails; doing that thing where he flips his  
hair out of his eyes. Francis is finding it very hard to concentrate.

Finally, they reach the front of the line and he near slams the ticket on top of the counter, if only to distract himself. “Can we change these to the next available flight?”

“We were wondering,” starts Mr. Handsome, sliding his own ticket onto the counter, “if you would be able to tell us if there are any hotels left that still have rooms available.”

From the corner of his eye, Francis spots the seat on the tickets. They would have been sitting next to each other, had they made their flight. _Oh boy._ He could hardly imagine sitting next to _him_ for two and a half hours and not go mad.

The woman behind the desk takes their tickets and books them over onto the new flight, handing them back two freshly printed tickets. Francis tries to spot the seat on the other man’s ticket, but can’t quite see without making a fool of himself. She taps the keyboard in front of her rapidly, making a tick-tick-ticking noise with her long nails as they hit the keys. “Looks like there’s just the one hotel left. Precisely two rooms.”

Mr. Handsome turns back to Francis with a charming smile. “Grand! Better get a move on, then.”

“Want to share a cab?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” mutters Francis.

They’re standing just outside the airport’s main entrance, a cold breeze whipping around their ears — well, Francis’ anyway; the other man’s are hidden behind his glorious looking, shiny hair and a fashionably upturned collar of an equally fashionably cut coat— as they wait by the taxi pick-up spot for a ride to the hotel.

“Don’t be daft,” says Mr. Handsome. “We’re going to the same place anyway. It’ll only be cheaper if we share.”

Francis thinks of the bills in his wallet, thinking of how they’ll only get him a room and half a ride to said room. He sighs. “Fine.”

“Grand!”

Receiving a comradely thump to his shoulders, Francis tries his best not to glare at the man as he stumbles forward. _Please let this be over soon._

“James Fitzjames, by the way,” says Mr. Handsome — Fitzjames, then — once they’re in a taxi and on their way, extending a hand towards Francis.

He takes it with only a light feeling of reluctance. “Francis Crozier.”

“Ah, I had wondered about your first name. You look like a Francis.”

“Do I now?” He’s not exactly overjoyed at the prospect of being confined in the same space with Fitzjames for the remainder of the ride. Especially if he’s as talkative as he seems.

“Oh yes, I think so. It’s a nice name, that. Suits you.”

“And how would you know, Mr. Fitzjames?”

“Please, call me James. I always have a feeling when it comes to people, and something tells me you’re a good man, like a proper Francis. May I call you Francis?”

“Well you thought wrong. And no, you may _not,_ ” Francis snaps, properly scowling at Fitzjames.

Fitzjames takes a long look at him, the crease between his brows growing deeper as a frown cuts across his features. Francis notices his mouth does something weird, tilting up and sideways as his jaw tenses when he takes Francis in, saying nothing.

He feels weirdly scrutinised like this, under the judging gaze of this handsome man; this Mr. Fitzjames — what kind of a name was that anyway? James Fitzjames; like a bad pun. If only he could open the door right then and there and throw himself back out onto the street. Simply roll away and hitch a hike back home. God, this trip was turning into a disaster already, and it hadn’t even fully begun yet. Tearing his eyes away from Fitzjames, he instead resigns himself to staring out the window on his side of the suddenly stiflingly hot car, watching as landmarks rush past them, feeling eyes burning into the back of his skull.

Things get even better for them when they arrive at the hotel, and Francis has angrily stormed off after splitting the taxi’s bill.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I do apologise sirs, the second room was only _just_ booked when you arrived,” says the clerk.

“Jesus bleeding Christ,” mutters Francis agitatedly. “Then what are our options here?”

“I’ve got a single room left with a double bed, will that do?”

“Well it’s going to have to, since I’m not going back to the airport and wait there for thirteen hours,” James cuts in, resting his elbows on the waist-high desk, looking awfully elegant even when he’s irritated.

 _When does the man_ not _look elegant and charming and all-round bloody fucking gorgeous,_ Francis thinks with a grumble as he roves his eyes over Fitzjames’ lean body, resting a second too long on the gentle swell of his arse underneath the long, grey woollen coat. He quickly turns his gaze away when he notices Fitzjames looking at him as well.

“Fine,” he near-growls. “We’ll take that one.”

They again split the bill and collect their keys for the room as Francis tries not to think of sharing a bed with this insufferable, toff, annoying, stylish, handsome, attractive, exotic—

 _Oh God…_ No. They’re going to share this room, get on that next flight, and never see each other again. This will all be over in a flash.

Francis swipes his key card in front of the scanner below the handle, pushing against the door as it beeps and the light flashes green. It jams. “What in the…” He swipes the card again, pushing and pulling at the handle and the door. “Oh, you—”

“For God’s sake, let me—” Fitzjames impatiently pushes him aside and swipes his own card. “Oh come on,” he mumbles as the door still won’t budge. “Piece of shit—”

“You’re not doing it right. You have to wait for the light to flash and then—”

“Well that didn’t work either, did it?”

“Move over.”

After several more attempts from Francis budging against the door and furiously trying the door handle, the door finally budges and has him stumbling into the room headfirst with his bag sliding off his shoulder and falling to the floor in front of his feet with a thump, nearly tripping over the stuffed thing as he hears Fitzjames snickering behind him in the doorway.

“Don’t even start,” he sneers in his direction.

“Oh come on, Francis, you have to admit—”

“Don’t ever call me Francis again,” Francis says pointedly, jabbing a finger to Fitzjames’ chest once he’s upright again.

Fitzjames swats the finger away as he says, “don’t act like an arse.”

“I’ll tell you who’s acting like an arse.”

Francis watches as Fitzjames’ eyes narrow to two thin slits and he does that thing with his mouth again before he pushes past him, muttering something under his breath that Francis can’t quite catch — no doubt something about his temper or foul mood, or maybe his heritage or looks, he knows perfectly well he’s recognised as Irish any time he opens his mouth; anything that stings, really, he wouldn’t put it past him.

He deposits his bag on one side of the bed and makes sure the key card is tucked away in the back pocket of his jeans and his phone in his jacket pocket before stepping out of the room, closing the door behind him with a slam. Tapping one of his most frequently dialled numbers on the lit-up screen of his phone, he listens as it rings… and rings, and _rings._

“Come on, pick up you bastard,” he mutters under his breath.

Finally, after what seems like age to Francis but wasn’t even a full minute, Tom Blanky’s voice crackles to life over the phone.

“Frank? Aren’t you supposed to be on the plane?”

“Thomas! Well… yes.”

“…But you’re not?”

“…No.”

“And why is that?”

“God, it’s a disaster, Tom,” whines Francis. “I missed it, and then this bloke came running up to the gate saying he missed it as well, and then we were told the next flight isn’t until five AM and—”

“Woah, slow down there, cowboy,” Blanky interrupts, chuckling. “Now tell me nice and slow. You and this fella missed the flight, and then?”

Francis sighs, “There’s not a single flight to Portugal until five AM, so we had to change our tickets to that one and spend the night somewhere, yeah? Well this lady said there was only one hotel left with two rooms available but then when we got there, there was only one room left with one blasted double bed.”

“So I’m guessing youse two are at the hotel now?”

“Yes! What in the hell am I going to do, Tom?”

“Just spend the night with him, it’s only a couple hours, Frank. Besides, I’m guessing that chap you’re sharing rooms with isn’t too happy about it either.”

“He’s an arse, Thomas. We forcibly shared a cab and then we had a falling out and now he positively hates me,” hisses Francis. He quickly adds, “And I him.”

“…Right,” is the only thing Blanky manages — with a great sigh.

“Loathe entirely.”

“Jesus, Frank. It can’t be as bad as all that.”

“Bet you a tenner I won’t make it through the night.”

“Well since I’m not going to pick you up and drive you back and stay awake another ten hours or so, you’re just gonna have to, ain’t you?”

Francis groans dramatically. “Thanks for the advice, Tom. Great work.”

“Oy, I’m not your personal driver or your conscience, you gotta work this one out yourself. Just be nice to the guy, Frank. You won’t see him again after tonight.”

“Fine,” grumbles Francis. He runs a hand over his face. “Sorry. Thanks, though.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just stay alive, little miss Drama Queen.”

“Psh,” Francis scoffs, hanging up as Blanky’s laugh echoes over the phone.

Sticking the battered phone back in his jacket pocket, he starts to restlessly pace the long stretched hallway as he considers Blanky’s words and the best course of action to take. He does have a point, he won’t see the bloke again after tonight. They’ll just have to make the best of the situation. He’s also starting to see how much of an arse he has actually been towards Fitzjames — he has never been any good with strangers, that much was clear, but this really is borderline asshole behaviour. He’ll have to apologise, that’s the least he can do. All Fitzjames had wanted to do was be kind, and Francis had — metaphorically — spat in his face and turned his back to him.

No, he’s not that kind of man. He may have been once — not so long ago, actually, involving a ruined relationship and drink — but not anymore. He’s going to apologise right here and now and make this right.

Turning back around towards their room’s door, he collides face-first into Fitzjames, knocking their noses together pretty badly.

“Oh for God’s—” starts Francis.

“Shit, sorry—” says Fitzjames at the same time, reaching for his nose.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Fitzjames carefully probes the bridge of his nose. “Don’t know. ‘S very tender.”

“Let’s have a sit down, then, and I’ll take a look at it.” Francis steers a half-blind Fitzjames back towards and through the doorway, and plants him down onto the bed next to Francis’ own bag. “Lift your head a bit.”

He gently feels along the straight — and rather long — line of Fitzjames’ nose, muttering an apology whenever he hisses, also looking to see if there’s any blood in or around his nose — which there isn’t, thankfully.

“I don’t think it’s broken or anything. Might be sore for a little while, though.”

“Yeah, thanks,” mutters Fitzjames not unkindly.

Francis stands in front of him for a moment longer, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt’s sleeves that are sticking out slightly under his coat’s as he doesn’t quite know what to do or how to stand, or how to even begin an apology like this one.

“I, err—” he starts. Fitzjames merely blinks at him. “I owe you an apology.”

Fitzjames says nothing, but shifts from his place on the bed a little to make room for Francis.

“You were right, I’ve acted like a proper arse towards you and I don’t even know you,” says Francis. He takes the spot just vacated for him. “I’m not usually like this— Well, maybe not so long ago I was, but that’s beside the point. I apologise for treating you like shit, James. I hope you can forgive me, though by all means you have every right to continue hating me.”

Doing the thing with his mouth again, Francis thought the man might actually be having a stroke since an hour or so ago.

“I’ve never— I never really _hated_ you, Francis. You just made it awfully hard to act like a normal human being towards you,” says Fitzjames, his pensive expression softening into a gentler one. “It was just that… well… This trip was important to me, and I hadn’t really expected to have to deal with _this,_ too.”

Taking Fitzjames in for a moment, watching as something shifts behind his eyes, Francis nods. “I think I can understand. This was important for me, too—” he sticks a hand in his jacket pocket, feeling the familiar shape and grooves of the chip he keeps there at all times “—A closure of things, I suppose.”

Fitzjames nods as well, seemingly understanding — at least partially — what Francis means.

“Thank you, for that,” he says. He holds out a hand in Francis’ direction.

Francis only blinks at the hand for a moment, but quickly does a doubletake and takes it before Fitzjames might think he doesn’t want to. Something shifts in the air between them, then — he sees it in the way Fitzjames looks at him — like the ocean tide retreating and bringing in a fresh wave, washing over the sand and cleaning it of its previous mistakes.

“We should probably unpack, grab something to eat,” says James, getting to his feet. He looks even taller like this, though the height difference between them isn’t all that great.

“Yeah, probably. Err—” Francis falters, _this is a weird question to ask._ “Which…Err… Which side of the bed did you want?”

A small, amused smile makes its way across James’ face. “I think this arrangement will do just fine,” he says as he points to their luggage, each respectively set aside to a sector of the bed.

“These are really quite good,” calls Francis around a mouthful of chips.

“Hmm?” comes James’ voice from the bathroom.

Francis nearly chokes as James pops around the corner, stepping out of the bathroom doorway and into a small cloud of steam with only a towel wrapped around his waist — which barely does anything to conceal what’s underneath, Francis notices. His towel-dried hair is still dripping onto the carpeted floor a little bit, making him look all the more roguishly handsome.

“Err—” he stammers, feeling flustered. “The chips. They’re good.”

“Oh.” James smiles charmingly — why should he look so charming while they’re talking about _chips_ of all things — as he steals one from Francis, who helplessly tries to swat his hand away.

“Oy, get your own,” chides Francis jokingly.

James grins innocently. “They’ll get cold.”

Stretching his long limbs — making him look even longer and leaner than he already is — James sighs and flops down onto his side of the bed and next to Francis, who sits up against the headboard, nonchalantly. Francis didn’t intend to, of course — it’s not like he finds James extremely attractive still and can’t tear his gaze from that blasted towel that shows nearly _everything_ — but notices the towel’s knot loosening as James scrambles upright against the headboard as well while he grabs for his own packet of chips, showing more and more of the soft roundness of a tummy just above, erm—

He clears his throat and focusses his attention back on the bundle of chips in his own hands, practically burning a hole in the packaging with the intensity of his stare.

“Francis, are you quite alright?” chuckles James at seeing him so tense all of a sudden.

“What? Yes. Fine. Thanks.” Francis grimaces, chiding himself. _Well done, idiot._

James looks at him questioningly. “If you say so.”

 _Actually, I’m not,_ Francis would like to say. _You’re far too handsome for your own_ and _my good, sitting there in your bloody tiny towel, looking like the man I couldn’t ever dare dream of yet here you are, making me feel all kinds of things like I would ever have a chance of being with you._ Of course he doesn’t, keeping quiet while he stuffs more chips in his mouth.

“Think I’ll go for a walk,” he mutters as he stuffs the last of his chips in his mouth.

“Wha—Now?”

Crumpling the wrapping up into a ball, Francis near jumps off the bed and grabs his coat, quickly pulling it on lest James see the blasted effect he’s having on him — he always cursed the length of the thing, though now he’s rather grateful for it. “Mn-hm, now.”

Pausing before he places another couple of chips between his lips, James makes a pensive noise. “Could I come with you?”

Francis would both like nothing more and less at the same time. A strangled sound wants to make its way from Francis’ throat to his lips. He’s only just able to stop it. “Err, sure.”

“Grand! Give me a minute to put some clothes on.”

 _Please do,_ Francis thinks. Though he’s sure James would pull off a towel as an outfit just the same.

Not ten minutes later, they’re walking down the asphalt path of a man-made park as James eats the remainder of his chips, and Francis occasionally steals some from him. The soft rustle of leaves and the chill breeze are doing wonders for Francis’ thought process — and at distracting him from the constant brush of James’ hand past his thigh after he’s finished the packet of chips.

Much to his own surprise, Francis finds his attentions not solely focussed on James or the bed they have to share later, though that thought never leaves his mind. Instead, he notices his thoughts wandering back to the trip and why exactly he’s taking it, much to his own dismay, which then again leads all the way back to how exactly he got here.

It’s not like he likes the way things have turned out, though he supposes it’s for the best.

Sophie’s uncle had never liked the way they were so close to one another, not to mention when they’d actually gotten themselves tangled in a relationship — a destructive one at that, it turned out. However much they had in common, they brought out the worst in each other under the right circumstances. And then—

“What’s on your mind?” James startles him from his thoughts.

“What? Oh— Nothing much.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Francis. I’ve only known you for three and a half hours and even I can see the gears of your mind churning about.”

A generous flush makes its way across Francis’ already ruddy cheeks. “Just… thinking about why I’m taking this doomed trip, again.” As he says it, he sticks a hand in his jacket pocket again, feeling the edge of the chip between the pad of his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh?” James asks inquiringly, quirking an eyebrow.

Francis smiles — a rueful thing — as he sighs and takes the chip out of his pocket. _It’s good to talk about it,_ someone had once written on a forum he’d read. He holds it up for James to see: it’s stamped with a number one in the centre. “One year sober.”

James’ curious and gentle expression falls. “Oh. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine, really.” Francis smiles again, briefly. “It’s the rest that bothers me more, I suppose.”

“Really, Francis—” James stops him in his tracks, gently squeezing his arm “—I’m flattered you’re confiding in me like this, but you don’t need to tell me if it bothers you so much.”

“James.” Francis raises a telling eyebrow. “I _am_ fine, truly. It’s been a while, and I think it’s time I told someone else than the people who already know.”

Letting go of Francis’ arm, James’ expression softens again as he sighs good-naturedly, giving him a nod. Francis nudges James and they continue their walk through the lines of trees decorating the sides of the path. He starts at the beginning, retracing his train of thought all the way back to the day he and Sophia met, showing James his vulnerable side.

“So, two failed proposals and the thought of a third later, I drowned myself in drink — whiskey. Made my own life and others’ miserable for nearly one and a half year, until I got my best mate in an accident because of it. Sobered me up real quick. So, here we are — a little over a year and a sobriety chip later.”

James remains silent for a while, looking out in front of them as they walk, doing that thing with his mouth again. Francis realises then that it’s a thing he does when he’s thinking, biting the inside of his cheek, probably.

“I was right,” says James with a soft smile, looking back at Francis.

Francis turns to him, confused. “Eh?”

“I told you I always have a feeling about people. I was right — you’re a good man, like a proper Francis.”

“Did you hear anything of what I just said?” Francis asks incredulously.

“Christ, Francis. Summing everything up that you just told me, I only see a good man,” declares James. “Things may not have worked out with Sophia, and yes, you both made some pretty arsehole moves, but you had the best intentions — the both of you. And even though it took some pretty horrific stuff for you to realise things needed to change, you did it because you cared more for your friends than for the alcohol. And look at you now,” he smiles — beaming, almost. Somewhere along the line, he’s hooked their arms together without Francis noticing. When Francis does notice, now, he finds he doesn’t mind it all that much.

Like James was earlier, it’s now Francis’ turn to be speechless. A hesitant, quivering smile makes its way across his face, curling his lips. He nods, squeezing James’ arm in thanks. No words are needed in that moment.

“I needed that,” says Francis gratefully. Judging by the way James looks at him, he supposes he knows he means the walk and their talk.

They’re back in their room at the hotel now, getting ready for a short couple of hours of sleep before their flight leaves, to James’ suggestion and Francis’ agreement. James is already in his pyjama’s — some very expensive-looking satin navy-blue pyjama trousers with a seemingly random T-shirt thrown on top — and sprawled out across the covers, which must be very soft and comfortable if James’ near-ecstatic exclamation is any indication. Francis feels like a fool in his worn-down boxers and faded, too large T-shirt he got from the thrift store.

The prospect of sharing a bed with James is making him feel anxious again, so instead of going to bed like a normal person, Francis is putting it off by doing a bunch of other things. At the moment, he’s brushing his teeth for longer than necessary, after already having checked his luggage — twice — and checked their flight’s status — thrice.

“Do tell me you’re not going to brush your teeth for an hour,” comes James’ voice.

Francis rolls his eyes at James as he exits the bathroom. “No, I’m done.”

“Good, because I’d like to get at least _some_ sleep before we have to go.”

“Oh, _har har._ I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that it’s only eight PM — we’ll get enough sleep yet, James.”

“You never know what might occur at night,” says James with a shrug of his shoulders and an innocent expression.

Francis only raises his eyebrows in question, though he has a feeling a grin is all he will get from James — which he does. Turning off all the lights in the room apart from the ones on their nightstands, he gets under the covers next to James, who’s done a good job of crumpling the sheets already in the time Francis was using to delay coming to bed.

“I’ve set an alarm for 2 AM, if that’s alright with you?” he says as James turns his light off.

“Yeah, thanks.” James briefly touches his arm to emphasize his words, accompanied by a gentle smile.

Francis is silent for a moment as he just _looks,_ taking James in in the soft glow of the one remaining light. He looks absolutely gorgeous like this — even more so than usual; even as the lighting now throws shadows all over his features, making the creases on his cheeks beside his mouth look like they’re cut even deeper than they really are.

“Night, then,” murmurs Francis in awe.

“Night,” James hums as he turns around and lays down, and Francis switches off his own light.

Francis doesn’t dream very often. He does, however, often wake up with images on his mind’s eye that are pulled from their context, often accompanied by feelings of both mentality and physicality. Shortly after meeting Sophia, he often woke up with an image of blond, flowing hair on his mind or the feeling of a soft, plump arse or boobs under his hands; he had also once seen an image of dog poo when Neptune had taken a dump right next to his bed, and the smell of it had led his mind to recreate an image of it.

Now, as the alarm went off, Francis finds he rather wants to bathe a bit longer in the feeling of soft fabric and skin under his hands and arms and pressed against his tummy, accompanied by an image and the feeling of shiny brown hair tickling his face. _Surely this is what heaven is like._

He’s pulled from this blessedly calm scene as James stirs awake next to him.

“Oh, hullo,” murmurs James in a sleepy voice, a hint of amusement in it.

“Mmn?” Francis grumbles. He was never much of a morning person.

“Are you quite comfortable?”

 _What was that supposed to mean?_ Francis blinks awake slowly, James’ amused grin coming into focus first as his eyes adjust to the dark. It’s not until James nods down towards his side that Francis shifts his gaze, realising in horror why he was seeing those images. He’s pressed up flush against James’ back with his arms wrapped snugly around the man’s chest and their legs all tangled up.

A distressed noise makes its way forward from his throat and out over his lips as he scrambles backwards, feeling his face flushing to a tomato-colour once again.

“It’s quite alright,” chuckles James. He shifts onto his back and turns to face Francis fully, a flustered grin on his lips.

“Sorry. I’ll— Err—” Francis stammers, jumping up off the bed and racing into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a thump.

“Francis?” comes James’ suddenly uncertain voice. “It’s really alright, there’s no need to be upset—”

 _Oh, there’s every need,_ Francis thinks in a panic. He turns the tap on and lets it run, splashing water in his face in the hope it would wake his thought process up as well himself. _Think, for God’s sake. Think!_ What was he going to do now? Christ, the man sends him into a nervous rage like some schoolboy who has his first crush. Except this isn’t just some crush, he can feel himself falling madly in love with him, which is the last thing he needs right now.

“Francis?—” James knocks on the bathroom door, startling Francis “—Are you alright?”

“Yes. Fine. Perfect,” utters Francis. “I’ll only be a minute!”

“You don’t sound fine to me.”

Francis screws his eyes shut tightly, willing James to leave it be — leave _him_ be and not go around looking so gorgeous and being so charming and nice and—

“I am. Really, James.” At least that sounds a little more like normal.

“…Well, alright then.”

He doesn’t want to face James, not just yet. Taking one look at the cramped shower, he quickly strips himself of his boxers and shirt and steps inside, sighing as the hot water hits his skin. Ever since things didn’t work out between Sophia and him, and after he left the whiskey standing in the cupboard, he’s found that a hot shower always relaxes him, like the running water washes the stresses from his body.

“I’ll see if there’s something in the vending machine down the hallway we can eat before we leave,” says Francis as he walks out the bathroom with a towel wrapped tightly around his waist — surely not looking half as gracious as James, he muses — in search of the clothes he left folded on a chair.

James takes a good look at him, doing that blasted thing where he bites the inside of his cheek again, a crease between his brows as he frowns. “Yeah… Thanks.” He grabs his own clothes and heads for the bathroom, for which Francis is grateful as he’s no longer locked under James’ gaze while near stark naked save for the towel.

He quickly pulls on his clothes and checks his pockets for the key card and his battered old phone, and heads out in search of the vending machine he saw somewhere along the hallway last night — or this night, since it’s only a little after two in the morning; he doesn’t really know. Surveying the machine’s contents, he gets them each a bagel and something that looks like an energy bar but not quite.

When he returns to their room after another battle with the door, James is just pulling on his shoes — a pair of those fashionable boots every man with self-esteem seems to be wearing nowadays — and packing away a last few things in his suitcase.

“Oh, thanks,” James smiles gently as Francis hands him the bagel and miserable energy bar. Francis merely nods, and the smile fades.

The cab ride back to the airport is a silent one, as neither of them really knows what to say. Francis muses he’s fucked another attempt at friendship up when he notices James looking at him sadly in the window’s reflection — and just in under ten hours, at that!

The check-in is just as sad of an ordeal, only speaking when they have to or about some mindless thing that doesn’t really matter anyway; nothing too personal, or about what happened. Francis feels like he wants to throw himself off the building.

They’re waiting for the gate to open and start boarding when James suddenly breaks the silence, startling Francis from his reveries about how exactly he would go about getting to the roof.

“D’you know, I never really liked flying. Though… for this trip I have to, because it’s important.” There’s something about his expression that Francis hasn’t seen before now, a slight downward curve to the corners of James’ mouth that’s different from any previous showings of it.

Francis nods carefully, having a feeling this is about something else than just a nervousness about flying. “You said as much earlier.”

“I never told you why I’m taking this trip,” murmurs James thoughtfully.

“You don’t need to. James—”

“No. No, I want to. You told me why you were taking it, it’s only fair. Before we might never see each other again.” James pauses as he looks up at Francis, who says nothing as he only takes James in. “I may seem like a proper English gentleman, a toff — sometimes a snob, too — but the truth is, I’m really not. Not in the slightest.”

Francis senses this isn’t easy for James, seeing the way his shoulders are tensed up and squared, his hands fumbling with the edge of his plastic seat. “James—”

“ _No._ Please, let me finish.” James throws him a look, brows furrowed. “I grew up in foster care for a short while, until the Coninghams adopted me — though I knew full well I wasn’t their biological son or brother to their son, Will; they made no moves to let me think I was, as much as they loved me. I’ve always known that my father was English, and that he had lived in Brazil since long before I was born. I’ve also known, that… that while he was married, he took advantage of one of his maids — my mother; my _real_ mother.”

At this, James looks back up at Francis with a clearly pained look behind his eyes. Francis feels his breath hitch, wants to reach out to James and hold him, wrap him up and tell him it’s alright, that he doesn’t think any less of him — he doesn’t.

“I was born out of wedlock, Francis,” continues James. “I’m half English, half Brazilian — though I was raised mostly English. I’ve always wondered, of course, what they were like, but I never met them. Not that I remember anyway.” He sighs, and his shoulder sag like a great weight has been lifted off of them. “So when I got word of my father’s death, I decided it was time — to go; to see — you know? So, here I am, waiting for a flight to Portugal to see a mother who might not even want to see me.” He smiles ruefully when he looks back at Francis, sadness written plainly on his features.

“Oh, James…”

Just then the call goes out for the boarding of their flight, and they have to grab their things and hurry along towards their gate. Francis had wanted to reassure James that whatever he was feeling was perfectly reasonable, wanted to reassure him that whatever would happen, he would still be the same James Fitzjames — a wonderful, kind, forgiving and good man. But now that they’re waiting in line in silence again and James has seemingly pulled himself together, acting like he hasn’t just confessed to his heritage and perhaps his biggest secret, he’s not so sure James would want him to. So Francis remains silent as he sees their companionship come to an end with each passenger let through the gate.

James turns to him when it’s almost their turn. “It’s something about you, Francis, that makes me feel like I’ve known you for years. Like you already know me, inside and out.”

Feeling the pressure of people behind them impatiently waiting for their turn, Francis feels droplets of sweat forming at the back of his neck. “Wha—? James, I—”

“I don’t know if you feel the same—” interrupts James hurriedly as he gives the woman at the gate his ticket “—but you’ve driven me crazy these past few hours, in the best of ways.”

Francis is still confused even as he feels himself blushing furiously, watching as James breaks out into a laugh as he’s given back his ticket. Then, without warning, James pulls him close and cups his face, pressing his lips to Francis’ in a heated kiss.

He feels like fireworks are going off inside his brains. His heart his hammering against his chest as James kisses him, licking into his mouth not ungently — Francis wants to drown in his touch, suffocate as he kisses him, he wants him to take his heart and keep it — leaving him breathless when James lets him go after what feels like a good ten minutes instead of ten seconds.

Helplessly, he watches as James smiles — positively beams, rather — and takes his suitcase and disappears into the bridge that connects the plane to the airport. “Wait! James—” He scrambles for his own ticket in his jacket pocket, finding instead his sobriety chip with a note taped to it. He frowns and whines as he searches his other pocket and hurriedly hands the ticket to the lady as passengers behind him begin to grumble. While she checks the ticket, Francis takes the note back out and reads it.

_You’re an idiot, Francis Crozier. Which just happens to be my type. XXX –James_

Just underneath the hurriedly scribbled note is a phone number.

Francis scoffs as a grin slowly curls his lips, thumbing over the piece of paper with one hand and the chip with his other.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/kahootqueen69) :)


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